Saudade
by SmoochiePooh
Summary: "Saudade, (n.) a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost; "the love that remains." Three pivotal moments in Clockwork Prince from Will's point of view. Very Wessa.
1. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5 of _Clockwork Prince_ from Will's POV. _

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><p>All he's ever wanted to do is hold her, protect her, do everything in his power to keep her safe and make her laugh. She is everything, heart, soul, light; take her away and the world would have lost the sun and his body its purpose.<p>

He knows she is strong with the enduring, shining strength of a diamond, but he can't help but want to shield her from all the pain and darkness of the world. He hates that she has ever experienced pain, felt fear, known the horrors that had been inflicted upon her.

When he hears her cry out in the night, it all he can do no to break down her door and sweep her into his arms, all he can do not to kiss her until she is drowning in his love. As if the circle of his arms could possibly protect her from the horrors that linger in her imagination. He has spent countless nights since saving her hovering at her door, a cry from her sleeping lips startling him awake as if she lay in the room next to his and not down the hall. He sits and waits for her to quiet, knowing that he cannot save her from her imagination, but desperate to believe his presence can make an impact, even if it is through the door.

Now, after spending the wee hours of the evening prowling the streets of Yorkshire alternately trying to banish the sight of her fainting into Jem's arms and the shocking contents of the spoils room from his mind, her dream scream draws him to her bedroom. Perhaps it's the distance from the Institute, or, more likely, the image of her horrified and bloodless face haunting him, but as she cries out again and again, he cannot stop himself from running to her room and to her defense.

The bedclothes are a disaster, twisted around her thrashing form. Tears are on her cheeks and when he reaches to shake her awake, she clutches his arm with feverish fingers.

"Tess, Tess, it's a dream! Tess, wake up! Tess, Tess." She gentles her thrashing at his touch, but her eyes are still wild beneath her lids, tears still creeping down her cheeks, hands still clutching at his arm.

"Tess, Tess, Tess," In other circumstance, it would have been a gift to say her name so many times, "you're dreaming. Wake up. Wake up!"

She wakes with a choking gasp, a flurry of dark hair and pale skin. She is shaking, her eyes wild and wide. He bridles the urge to pull her into his arms, to stroke her hair and to kiss the tears from her cheeks.

"It was a dream?" her voice is unbelieving, foggy from sleep. "It felt so real, so utterly real-" Her eyes focus on him and he can't breath for a second.

"Will." She is awake now and his name on her lips makes his heart pound. She sweeping her eyes over his rumpled clothes and mussed hair and he has to school his features into nonchalance, lest she see the concern, the love, for her in them.

"What did you dream?"

As she explains her nightmare, his heart constricts painfully from the need to hold her. He would give his left hand to be able to take away her nightmares and the experiences that had wrought them. He realizes, belatedly, that his hands are still on her shoulders, but he cannot bring himself to remove them.

"Tess," her name is sunlight in his mouth. Against his volition, his fingers are in her hair and he's sliding the silky tangle that's escaped from its plait behind her ears. "God damn that devil Starkweather for showing you what he did, but you must know it's not like that anymore." His fingers are still wrapped in her tangled locks, their tips just a breath away from brushing the oh-so-soft skin of her neck. "The Accords have forbidden spoils. It was just a dream."

She draws a deep breath, as if to calm herself, but it comes out sounding like half a sob. "Where have you been?" she asks. "You smell like nighttime."

The nonchalance falls from his lips, but it takes effort, instead of being a force of habit. "Out kicking over the traces." _Trying to make myself not love you. Trying to save your life. Trying to save _my _life, for if you die I shall die too._ "As usual."

In spite of himself, he is touching her face again and he is vaguely alarmed at how cool her cheek is. But perhaps that is only because the proximity to her has made him nearly feverish.

"Can you sleep now? We're meant to rise early tomorrow. Starkweather is lending us his carriage so we might investigate Ravenscar Manor. You, of course, are welcome to remain here." _Though I am loath to leave you in this house of horrors. _"You need not accompany us."

She flinches beneath his fingers and her whole body shudders. "Stay here without you? In this big, gloomy place? I would prefer not to."

Her strong reaction makes his stomach clench. He hates that she has reason to be afraid. "Tess, that must have been quite a nightmare, to have taken the spirit out of you so. Usually you are not afraid of much." _My Boadicea, my warrior princess. _

"It was awful," she replies, her voice gone soft and her eyes dark with fear, "Even Henry was in my dream. He was taking apart my heart as if it were made of clockwork."

He hates himself for making her relive the dream, hates Starkweather for revealing that room of horrors, hates Charlotte for sending them here, hates Mortmain for giving her reason to be afraid. He feels sick with self-loathing and tries to make her smile, using his humor as self-defense.

"Well, that settles it. Pure fantasy. As if Henry is a danger to anyone except himself."

But she does not smile, her eyes are still wide and haunted. It crosses his mind that her smile is the chink in his armor, a mallet to the stone walls he has built around his heart. But she does not smile. He wonders how she cannot know that she is safe with him. How can she not know how much he loves her? How can she possibly not see that the thought of her hurt makes him see red? He aches for her. The words fall out of his mouth before he can bottle them in:

"I would never let anyone hurt a hair on your head, you know that don't you?"

Their eyes lock, and he loses his self-control because her eyes are the sea and he is drowning in them. Even the voice in the back of his mind, the constant reminder that for her to love him is for her to die, is silent, caught up in the darkness and the need to love her, kiss her, protect her, cherish her always. Her body bends towards his and when she lifts her lips towards his, he cannot stop the rush of air that comes from the sweet relief of being able to kiss her as he has wanted to for so, so long. He doesn't realize his hands have come up to cup her face until his thumb brushes the corner of her mouth. It is almost his undoing.

When, at the last possible second, she turns away and his lips meet the softness of her cheek instead of the fullness of her lips, it is like having a bucket of cold water dumped on his head.

"No," her voice too loud, to wrong for the situation. "No, I don't know that, Will." It's like his heart has been dregged in ichor, hearing those words is so painful. It is a feeling contrary to every fiber of his being to let her question the truth of his devotion to her.

"You have made it very clear what kind of use you have for me. You think I am a toy or your amusement. You should have not come in here; it is not proper."

The words bounce around in his head, painful and true. He realizes, belatedly again, that his hands are still cupping her face and drops them.

"You called out-" he manages to croak, feeling, for all the world, like he's been stabbed.

"Not for you."

There is nothing he can say in reply, for it is true. She does not love him. Perhaps she had, once, but he had killed it, broken her trust and her heart.

Hastily, he tries to build up the walls before he can pull her into his arms and tell her what lies those words had been, before he can kiss her and cradle her and make her see how precious she is to him.

"Do you regret what you said to me that night on the roof, Will? The night of Thomas's and Agatha's funeral? Can you tell me you did not mean what you said?"

He wonders if she is hoping he'll renege those words. He pulls away from her, dropping his head so his hair hides the battle that he knows would be revealed in his eyes. He loves her more than anything. The thought of anyone playing with her heart makes him angry and the knowledge that he has hurt her, that he used those words to make her stop loving him is a knife ripping his heart to shreds.

"No," his voice is broken, even to his own ears. He is shocked, frankly, that his love for her, his desire to keep her alive and will, is able to overcome his fierce desire for her to know how much he loves her, for her to know that he thinks she is the purest, most beautiful thing in his life. "No, the Angel forgive me, I can't say that."

He feels more than sees her withdraw from him, putting space between them as she wraps her arms around herself, like she's trying to physically hold herself together. Her entire body bespeaks pain and defensiveness, but she speaks, there is an underlying strength in her quiet words:

"Please go away, Will."

It is agony, the purest agony he has felt since he was twelve and he realized that his family had finally left him at the Institute. Her sending him away is a wound that has reopened that old one and both are bleeding fresh.

"Tessa," he begins, knowing that he can fix this, if she will just give him enough time, he can fix this and while she may not love him, at least he will not have broken everything good that is between them.

"Please."

The word is firm and cold and quiet, the death knell to what might have been this night. He feels as if all the air has been sucked from the room and he cannot breath. It is as if his is bleeding from a thousand cuts, as if the contents of his mind have all been wiped clean except for the repeat tattoo of this one word. _Please. _He longs to tell her the truth, longs to pull her into his arms and kiss her until neither of them can think or breath or feel anything but how much he loves her.

But she is alive, which means she does not love him. He has protected her from himself well. She does not love him, he has seen to that. She will never die because he wasn't careful enough. She does not love him and she will live long and be happy and that will have to be enough. He loves her too much to let himself kill her.

These are the thoughts that force him to stand up and walk across her room. These are the thought that allow him to close the door without looking back behind him. These are the thoughts that keep him from turning around and running back into her room and gathering her up into his arms when he hears her let out a breath that is half a sob. These are the thoughts that will keep her alive.


	2. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12 of _Clockwork Prince_from Will's POV._

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><p>"You keep saying my name." There was a hint of a smile in her voice, bemused and a little lust-drunk. It was a symphony to his ears.<p>

"I love you name," he said around her lips, "I love the sound of it." _I love you. And you must love me. You can't kiss me like that and not love me, can you? _It doesn't make sense and he doesn't want to think about it, but he needs to know. After all, she's not dead, yet, is there a world where you can kiss someone like this and not care at all? He doesn't understand. Maybe she is the exception to the curse. But maybe she isn't. He's torn and confused, but is afraid to ask. The perfect way she fits into his arms, the way her body has molded itself around him, it must mean _something_. It can only be from Heaven. His gift for protecting the people he loves, perhaps? A sign that there is a God and said deity is merciful?

"I have to ask you something," he says through her kisses, "I have to know-"

"So _there_ you two are."Her kisses are intoxicating and have overcome everything, his training, his runes, all of it. They've been interrupted yet again and his question is cut off abruptly, leaving Will to wonder if he will die not knowing the answer. "And quite a spectacular display of it you're making, if I do I say so."

It is Magnus. He knows without looking and pulls away from Tessa, slowly coming to his senses. Allowing her to separate herself from his arms is the hardest thing he's ever had to do.

"Let me guess," Magnus begins, all aloofness and annoyance. Will wants to punch him. "You had the lemonade."

That was not _quite_ what Will had been expecting and his thoughts about punching Magnus derail and tumble over themselves as he tries to figure out what the hell the warlock is talking about.

"I-yes. Nate brought me some." Tessa replies, sounding just as confused as he is. Will stares daggers at Magnus, wishing he'd just go away and leave them alone again.

"It has a bit of a warlock powder mixed into it." His cat eyes are glittering as he watches realization slow dawn on Will. Warlock drugs, of course. He should have known, should have been more careful. He has spent enough time in ifrit dens to know better. They are inebriated, though it's a state of intoxication he's never experienced before. Magnus continues speaking, nonchalant and indifferent:

"The kind that lowers your inhibitions." The words set off warnings in Will's mind and a dull ache begins just behind his ribs. "And makes you do things you would not otherwise do."

His fears are confirmed and for a brief instant, his mind goes blank with pain. He gasps, "Oh." That would explain the fact that his filter broke, that his desire for her overrode his need to protect her from his curse, that she returned his kisses with such fervor.

She does not love him. Does not share the need to be near. Does not ache for him the way he aches for her. Of course, she is alive, for she does not care for him. She was only under the influence of drugs. It wouldn't have mattered if it were him or Jem or Henry, the effect would have been the same. She does not care for him. She does not love him. The words repeat themselves over and over again in his mind, lyrics to a gruesome song. "_Oh._"

He pulls further away from Tessa, ashamed that he took liberties without even knowing it, still aching from the fact that she only allowed him to do so because she was not herself. She does not love him. He grips the rail of the balustrade in an effort to keep from falling over under the sudden weight of his pain. He searches his heart for the cloak of numbness he wears when he's around her, his comfort against the knowledge that he has hardened her heart towards him, but it is nowhere to be found. The minutes spent holding her have torn his walls down and there is nothing to protect him from the dizzying pain of it all.

All this, he feels in an instant. Magnus and Tessa are oblivious to his breaking heart and Magnus is doing his damnedest to maintain an air of mirth.

"Gracious, that's a lot of bosom you're showing." Will thought he'd wanted to hit Magnus before, but now the desire to spring into action, to move, to do _something_ is almost unresistable.

"_Tout le monde sur le balcon_, as they say in French." Will bristles at the implication behind Magnus' tone and hopes that she won't have understood the exact euphemism, although the warlock's gestures make it rather clear. "Especially apt, as we are now, in fact, on a balcony."

Will feels savage, and then idiotic, as he realizes that, even amidst his own personal heartbreak and hell-on-earth, it is his instinct to protect her. This realization, of course, does not keep his mouth shut.

"Let her alone." It is comes out half a growl and half a sob, though neither of the two notice. "She didn't know what she was drinking."

Did not know indeed. For if she did, she wouldn't have been able to react to him that way. He ensured her thorough heartbreak and heaven knew if he was good at one thing, it was breaking the hearts of those that loved him. The thought threatens to drown him. They are still talking, Tessa is snapping and defensive, something he loves to observe because she comes alive in completely unexpected ways when she is angry. It's adorable, really, if only because it is so unique for her to be anything but good and gracious. He cannot bring himself to look at her, however, for to see her flashing eyes or the way her mouth curves when she delivers a saucy retort would be to shove a knife into the gaping hole that is his gut.

"-but if one of you were recognized already, what's the chance it could happen again?" Magnus' voice, pragmatic and ever-so-slightly-saucy too. "It's time to make yourselves scarce."

"What do you care if we get out of here or not?" Will asks the night sky, rather than turn and face them yet. _As if you weren't the one who delivered this wound, as if it weren't your fault._

"You owe me." The warlock's voice was steady now, and Will could picture the hard glint of his cat eyes in his mind's eye. "I mean to collect."

That was too much. He turns towards them now, all anger and anguish, avoiding letting his eyes focus on Tessa's, who still stood close enough for him to touch. Of course _this_ warlock has senses of duty and morality, twisted and perverse though it may be.

"I should have know that was it." He's aiming to hurt now and it feels _good_. It is not an outlet for the pain, but it takes some of the edge off. This is who he is. _This_ is William Owen Herondale. He didn't know what he was doing or how to act when he was kissing Tessa, but he does know how to be vicious. Of course, Magnus is oblivious to it all, and the fact that he hasn't hurt the warlock's feelings with his implication reminds him that not even an immortal being cares about him.

"You may choose you friends, but not your unlikely saviors." Will could have killed him for his cheeriness. "Shall we go then? Or would you rather stay here and take your chances? You can start up with the kissing where you left off when you get back to the Institute."

Magnus knows that Will knows he is goading him, testing to see how far Will can be pushed before he snaps. Will grinds his teeth, biting back all manner of nasty things. It is with great effort that he manages to say:

"Get us out of here."

The warlock is visibly delighted by Will's attempts to control himself. Twisted sense of duty indeed. In the snap of his fingers, they are beneath a rain of magic and when the sparks fade, in the garden, far from the house.

"There, that wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Not difficult at all. Damn meddling warlocks. Not difficult to find every demon but the right one. Not difficult to spike the lemonade. Not difficult to make people act in ways they never would otherwise. Not difficult to ruin the most perfect moment one's existence. Not difficult to crush a soul.

"Magic." He puts all his anger and disdain into the one word.

Magnus' eyebrows raise, as do his still-pulsing hands. "And just what do you think your precious runes are? _Not _magic?"

Tessa breaks in, admonishing them both, but Will barely hears her words. There is something evil coming, he can feel it. He edges himself in front of her, yet again subconsciously protecting her even though he has devoted so much to making her hate him. The cold of battle begins to settle over his shoulders when he sees the demons, but it is rudely interrupted when he actually _sees_ the group approaching them. He is barely aware of the crackle of Magnus' magic, of Tessa's stifled cry.

"_You." _

A hundred things hit him at once. Hope, dread, elation, terror, agony, all vying for attention in his brain. It is a miracle after all, a sign from Heaven. All is not lost. Even in this darkest hour, hope springs eternal. The blue-skinned demon doesn't know what's about to hit him. Years of anguish and anger and hurt have broken free from his heart tonight and this bloody, goddamn demon is going to feel every last bit of it.

"Er, I don't recall-" Will's eyebrows shot up and the demon faltered. "That is, I don't think I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance?"

If there had been any hope of Will maintaining his composure long enough to maintain a civil conversation before the beast was cast back into Hell, it was most certainly obliterated then. Will felt, not the cold of battle, but a white-hot rage, one he'd never experienced before and was sure to be deadly. To whom was yet to be decided.

"_Liar!"_

He was blinded by the white rage until all that he could see was the demon. Magnus would take care of Tessa, see that she made it home safely. He knew this intrinsically and was not worried about her safety at all. Nothing else mattered now. He lunged for the demon, caught it, and they rolled. His Shadowhunter training blurred with his murderous instincts, making him sloppy. The demon twisted out of his grip and ran for it's life.

The mad fight that ensued when he caught up to beast and tackled it to the ground was all a blur to him. Twice, he'd had the upper hand and twice, the damned creature escaped him. The third time he caught it was when the demon bit him in an attempt to flee. The pain was enough to knock Will out of his white-hot fog of rage and loosed his grip on the demon, allowing it to take off again.

Will cursed, loudly and creatively. One of his curses was actually quite creative and he made a mental note to tell Jem it if he lived. His arm rather hurt and he didn't know where his stele was. There was a pretty good chance the demon's bite was poisonous and he had no way of getting home either. He grimaced and lifted his arm to examine the wound and laughed aloud. There, embedded in the torn mass of blood and muscle, was a tooth.


	3. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17 of Clockwork Prince, from Will's point of view._

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><p>"Bridget, I need a tisane."<p>

The cook paused her singing and looked up at where he stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Well, where he leaned. The walk from the infirmary to the main floor had been more difficult than he'd anticipated.

"Must be hard to sleep with yer back all cut up, sir," she replies, her lilting voice taking on a no nonsense tone he was grateful for. He'd had enough of people coddling him today.

"Aye, I roll around and it ends up tearing the wound open," he lied. In truth, he was worried about Tessa. She was the one making little scared sounds in her sleep and it was all he could do not to shake her awake and chase away her nightmares. But the memory of the last time still had a hold on him and he couldn't bring himself to get close to her. "A strong one, Bridget." As an after thought, he added, "Please."

She slid the loaves of bread she'd been forming into the oven and dusted off her hands before turning to the pantry to retrieve the ingredients. He felt badly for distracting her from her work. It was terribly late and he hadn't expected anyone to be awake. In truth, he'd hoped the the walk to and from the kitchen would be enough to tire him to the point where he couldn't stay awake either. Surely it was possible to be in the same room with Tessa and sleep, he just wasn't tired enough yet. Surely it was possible to be able to close his eyes and forget about the worry and the fear and block out the whimpers she made and just _sleep_. A brusque shake of his shoulder made him realize that he'd nearly fallen asleep again the doorframe. So it was possible, he just needed to be away from her. Which he was unwilling to do.

"Now don't go dropping it, if you please, Mr. Herondale," Bridgit said as she placed a mug balanced on a plate of biscuits in his hand. "And eat a little before you drink it."

He was so tired that he forgot his walls and smiled at her. "Thank you very much, Bridgit."

She smiled back and shooed him from the kitchen. As he retreated, he heard her pick up singing again and nearly dropped the cup when he realized it was a standard, run-of-the-mill love song she was singing. In other circumstances, he would have stopped to listen, to collect enough of a story to tell Jem later on, but not tonight. Tonight, he was too distracted by other things.

When he reached the infirmary, Tessa was tossing her head fitfully against the pillow. When she murmured as if in pain, he'd rushed to her side without a thought, fearing that she'd do herself and the wound on her head damage if she kept this up. Dropping the mug and the plate on the little bedside table, he'd reached out to shake her awake.

And then froze. Visions of her face in another time and another place swam before his eyes. The way she'd turned away from his kiss. The terrible, terrible pain in her eyes. The coldness in her voice as she whispered "_Not for you." _kept him from pulling her into his arms.

For a moment, he stayed there, his arm suspended above her, before he forced himself to slowly draw away. He felt like a little boy, helpless and afraid as he watched her. The pain of her watching writhe and whimper on the bed was trumped only by the pain of her pulling away from him that night and kept her out of his arms.

It was with great self-control that he retreated to the bed next to hers, the tisane forgotten on the nightstand. He couldn't make himself go any further than the neighboring bed. He swore to himself that if it got too bad, he'd wake Charlotte and force her to help Tessa. It was a small comfort as he watched her. Eventually, she settled back into the pillows and stilled, her breathing becoming even and her face relaxing. He'd read that people looked younger when they slept, and thought it rubbish until now. Watching her sleep peacefully, her face so innocently childlike was one of the things he knew he'd remember for the rest of his life.

He watched the way her eyes moved beneath the thin skin of her eyelids. He admired her smooth cheek, the bow of her lips, the slope of her forehead before it disappeared behind the white bandage. He knew that, save Bridgit, he was the only one awake in the whole Institute and, thus, could do no harm to anyone but himself for indulging in this moment and staring her, daydreaming. No one would see him and think he was capable of feelings. No one would let onto Tessa that he might fancy her. No one could see this window into his soul, and he didn't care. It felt good to indulge. He savored it.

Mentally, he was holding her close, stroking her hair and murmuring sweet things into her skin. There, in the darkness of the infirmary, he allowed himself to dream of what he'd tell her when the curse was lifted, how he'd explain himself and beg her for a second chance. In his mind's eye, she wept for him and gathered him into her arms and they held each other for a long time as he whispered apologies and reassurances into her hair and she whispered that she'd never been able to stop loving him and that she always knew that it was all a sham.

"Will." His name on her lips was not as sweet as he'd imagined, but it filled him with a split second of idiotic delight just the same. She was sitting up and looking at him with a curious expression on her face. A little sleepy, a little confused, but...affectionate. And adorable. Like she was startled, but pleased to see him sitting next to her. Anything he might have read into her expression, though, was dashed in her next breath: "What are you doing awake?"

To be honest, tt had never occurred to him that she'd wake up when he was sitting at her bedside, staring at her and daydreaming about their future together. He didn't know how to answer the question.

"I brought you a tisane." He spouted the first thing that came to his mind. "But you sounded as if you were having a nightmare." He hoped that she would understand his hesitation to wake her, that it might be a good enough reason for him to be awake and watching her. But if his impropriety bothered her, she didn't say so.

"Did I? I don't even remember what I dreamed." And she pulled the covers about her, as if trying to physically protect herself from an unpleasant thought. "I thought I had been escaping into sleep-that real life was the nightmare and that sleep was where I could find peace."

Her voice was so sad, so lost, that he couldn't have stopped himself from going to her if he'd wanted to. Without realizing he'd done it, he'd crossed the space between them and was handing her the mug as he sank down next to her. In that moment, he just wanted to protect her from the real world, and send her back to where she felt peace.

"Here. Drink this."

She wrapped her hands around the mug and sipped from it delicately. Her nose just barely wrinkled as she tasted it and he had to suppress the urge to kiss her, just from how adorable her facial expression is. "What will it do?"

It wasn't as if he could tell her that he'd requested an extra-strong tisane in order to be able to bear sleeping in the same room as her. "Calm you," is all he can manage to give her for explanation. She blessedly doesn't question his response. She is staring at him, unabashedly, her head tipped slightly to the side. She blinked at him, slowly, and smiled a little to herself. And then gave her shoulders a little shake as if she's realized what she's just done.

"How are you injuries? Are you in pain?"

If only she knew how much pain he was in. How watching her sleep and being unable to comfort her was like a knife in his side. How sitting next to her on the bed and acting calm and not pulling her onto his lap took all his strength. How words of love and adoration bubbled just behind his lips. How the fact that she is concerned for him makes his heart pound and his head feel light. It is all he can do to shake his head and explain:

"Once all the metal was out, they were able to use an _iratze_ on me. The wounds are not completely healed, but they are healing." He realized that he's not just talking about the wounds on his back, but the wounds that this night has done to his psyche. "By tomorrow they will be scars."

"I am jealous," she murmured over the rim of the mug. She takes a sip and makes another face at the taste before touching the bandage wrapped about her forehead. "I believe it will be a good while before this comes off."

"In the meantime you can enjoy looking like a pirate."

The words are out of his mouth and she is laughing softly before he realizes what's happening. He revels in the sound of her laughter, but grows concerned when he realizes how breathy her laughter is. He has placed himself close enough to her that he can feel more than see how her shoulders shake a little after she's done laughing.

"Do you have a fever?" Her voice is still airy, but she speaks to him in the way she would to Jem, like a concerned friend. The thought that she cares about his well-being delights him.

"The _iratze _raises our body temperature," he explains. "It's part of the healing process."

"Oh," she replies in an exhale and her shoulders slump a bit. It occurs to him that this is the first time she's been awake since the warehouse and realizes belatedly that it should be _anyone_ but him talking to her right now. Damn.

"I am sorry," he starts as gently as he is able, "about your brother."

She doesn't even lift her head when she replies to him. "You couldn't be." He cringes at the harshness in her tone, at the knowledge that, as far as Tessa knows, he truly couldn't feel sympathy for her. "I know you think he deserved what he got." Her voice drops and grows impossibly sad. "He probably did."

"My sister died." The memory rises up and consumes him for a moment, and he lets himself share it with her. It's the first time he's shared his pain with someone in five years. "She died, and there was nothing I could do about it. I _am_ sorry about your brother."

And he truly is. Because he's read her letters and he knows that Nathaniel Gray was her only family. Because he knows that she loved him the way that he loved Ella. Because he saw her face just before the automaton exploded and he knocked her to the ground. Because he heard her voice as soon as the dust settled and it was the pain and love and fear in it that forced his body off of hers, even when he was torn to ribbons. He might have hated Nate for hurting her, for betraying her. God knew that he hoped the brat was burning in Hell for turning Tessa over to the Dark Sisters alone, but he was sorry that she had lost him. He felt her pain like he felt his own.

She had looked at him after he finished speaking, her head tipped to the side as if she were trying to work out some particularly difficult poetry translation. She blinked, once, twice, and gave him a little smile.

"Will," she whispered, almost conspiratorily. "Will, I feel very odd."

The cup in her hand started to slip and his runed hands caught it before it could spill. He leaned across her to return it to the table and wondered what _exactly_ Bridgit had made to help him sleep.

"Do you want me to get Charlotte?" he asked, unwilling to leave her unless she told him otherwise.

She shook her head and the ends of her hair brushed against his arm. And then, before he could quite register what was happening, her arms were around him and she had her face pressed into his shoulder. He almost pulled away from the shock of it, like one flinches away from bright light or the heat of a blazing fire. He didn't know what to do, didn't understand what was happening, wasn't sure if he cared either way.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked, her lips moving against his collarbone, her breath whispering across his skin. And he found that he would want her to hold him like this even if it not only meant not just the pain of her hands on his still-healing flesh, but also meant the pain of losing her again tomorrow.

"I don't care." He was speaking to her as much as he was speaking to himself. "I don't care." And he let his arms close around her.

She drew even closer to him, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck and he nearly stopped breathing. Her cheek was cool against his fevered skin and every little puff of breath she exhaled sent a thousand shivers down his spine. Eventually, he laid his face against her hair, reveling in the fact that even beyond the scent of blood and antiseptic, she still smelled of lavender. His arms around her were trembling, in hope, in terror, in pure unadulterated pleasure. It felt so damn _good_ to be able to hold her, to feel her warm and breathing and alive and safe in his arms. There was no other place for her. There was nothing else that mattered other than her. She was everything and he had the strongest urge to kiss her in that moment, just a sweet little kiss, that it nearly overwhelmed him. He let his shaking fingers pass over her hair and slip beneath her chin to lift her face towards his.

"Will,"she said, her sweet mouth on millimeters from his. "It's all right. It doesn't matter what you do." Her eyes slipped half closed and her voice became even softer. She smiled angelically. "We're dreaming, you know."

Her body was trembling in his arms and he felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach as he realized that something wasn't right. Her eyes fluttered closed.

"Tess?"

She had been supporting some of her own weight before, but now she went limp in his arms and he instinctively tightened them around her, cradling her head against him as he panicked. He knew that, in all likelihood, she was fine, that it was just the tisane working as it was supposed to, but he contemplated going for Charlotte anyway, just to make sure. But that would require letting her go, standing up, and leaving her, possibly to never hold her in his arms again. And _that_ he was could not do. Especially when he shifted and she clung to him and whimpered his name softly in her sleep.

He stayed like that until he'd lost the feeling in his legs and then a little longer. He knew it was indecent and improper and likely immoral, but he wasn't able to make himself care. She wanted him, and she wasn't under the influence of anything stronger than an herbal tea. She clung to him and had said his name in her sleep and he had heard it and he couldn't move because he was so damned happy.

After a while though, he realized that he was damned. Just damned. That he'd have to let her go and tomorrow morning she'd wake up and she'd be horrified because he'd broken her heart and her trust. And then he realized that he'd have to lie to her again, to tell her he was drunk or delirious and break her heart all over again. And _that_ he could not bear. Not now, not after she'd curled into him and nuzzled her face into his neck and slept and dreamed in his arms.

So he'd laid her down and arranged the covers over her. He'd smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead. And then he left her side, though it felt like he was leaving half of himself there with her on the bed. When he retreated to his room and saw the note from Magnus on his bedside table, he barely took the time to dress properly before leaving.

At last, there was something to give him hope. **  
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_Fin. _


End file.
